


Nacre and the Flesh

by In_Cogito



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: 1920s rural America, Alternate Universe - H.P. Lovecraft, Existential Horror, Gen, Horror, Journal Entries, Lovecraftian, Period-Typical Classism, Period-Typical Racism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-19
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:34:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28161753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/In_Cogito/pseuds/In_Cogito
Summary: April 18, 1923Sleep does not come to me easily lately.  And my nerves are terribly unsettled, even whilst deeply immersed in my work.  Strange dreams and visions visit me.  They cavort on the edges of my vision and my consciousness and vanish once I stir or try to steal a glance.  I feel as though they take something away every time, but I can never remember what.  All that’s left is a sense of emptiness, like I’m staring down into an empty pit.  Or like I’m sinking.Perhaps it is nothing.  An odd mood and just that.  I simply need sleep.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 2





	Nacre and the Flesh

**Author's Note:**

> We're trying something a little darker this time around. For some reason, I just really wanted to write a Lovecraft AU for this one. But slotting the characters from PSon into different roles is always fun to me. 
> 
> Fair warning: Racism and Classism abound, as is usually the case with Lovecraft's original works. While I did decide to incorporate them into the work itself, that is not to say that I myself hold these beliefs, let alone condone them. 
> 
> Feel free to proceed if you feel comfortable enough to do so!

_ Ithaca, New York _

_ 1923 _

_ “Spread my ashes in the ocean, my boy. And you will never be alone.”  _

His body twitched hard enough to jolt himself awake. Pain shot up his neck and spine as he unfurled from his position at the desk all too quickly. The desk. The papers, the journals. His father’s office. Malcolm Whitly lifted his head fully from his folded arms. Notes and diagrams rustled softly. A creak sounded from the old chair beneath him. There was a hand on his shoulder until there suddenly wasn’t. He looked up. Ainsley. His beloved sister, all loose, blonde curls tumbling down her back and grey ripples in her gown. She looked down on him with an expression of pity. 

No, not pity. Hurt. Understanding. Compassion. She was suffering just as much as he was in these times and he was a fool to think otherwise. 

“What-” Malcolm slurred and smeared the sleep out of his eyes. “What time is it?”

“Brother-”

“Father said I should be here.”

“Malcolm.”

“I have . . . to . . .” Malcolm found himself on his feet somehow, hands and body weight supported by the old mahogany desk. He surveyed the desk. Again, notes, papers. Journals. A life that was lived to the fullest for the sake of learning and teaching, safely contained in these four walls. The young college student observed his father’s office, a husk reminiscent of the happiest parts of his life. 

His father. The good man who did something so cruel as leave a whole family behind. 

“Did you fall asleep here again?”

Here. Malcolm remembered “here” very fondly. Ithaca University was where Professor Martin Whitley enlightened and graced countless students with knowledge regarding the field of marine biology. Sure. Local parks were nice. Libraries and trails along the coast had their novelties. But it was here in these halls, in the tiny office in the eastern wing of the campus, with these books where his childhood was built, smile by smile and laugh by laugh. When his father read him long reports and studies by oil light, drew on papers a fraction of the creatures that thrived in the ocean. Malcolm would fall asleep in his chair listening to such ramblings, would wake up with a coat draped over his body or tucked into bed with no memory of ever going home. 

And now it was all gone for good.

Four weeks ago, to the day, Malcolm gave a eulogy he only just barely managed to put together and began the arduous task of tying up the last of his father’s affairs. He had to delay his studies for it and wouldn’t be coming back until the next semester. And he would be alone. 

At least his professors were understanding. 

(They, too, were grieving a great loss.)

“ . . . Yes.” He shifted his weight onto his two feet, stood straight. Lifted one hand from the desk to grip part of the old chair. As it was, the college student could barely keep his head above the ocean of grief. “Father had a tendency to misplace important supplies.” Pens. Ink. The like. Malcolm’s hands left the wood and placed themselves firmly on his hips as he surveyed the room again. Mindful. Reflective. Fond. The tall bookshelves, the diagrams nearly filling the walls corner to corner. No matter where he looked he could spot the odd seashell sitting innocently atop a ledge or a stack of books. A warm bath of afternoon sunshine set the room ablaze and alive one more time. Even the dust in the air seemed to dance on its way down. “If I don’t come here at least one a day I . . .” Malcolm licked his lips. The weight in his chest threatened to pull him to the ground and his eyes burned with unshed tears. “I don’t feel right.” 

Ainsely was silent. But she spoke her mind, tossed politeness and correctness to the side for what she felt needed to be said. “Perhaps it’s not supposed to feel right. At least, not for the time being.”

She really was an awe-inspiring woman, brave and bold and wise in her own way. A strange blessing (that often led to trouble), but a blessing nonetheless. Before Malcolm could ponder it further, a pair of soft, slender arms pulled him close. Encircled him and all his weakness in that moment, made the load he carried just a little lighter. Of course, he cried. Yet again. Frustrating as it was, at least no one would be coming by his father’s office to see it. Footsteps would echo off the halls and give them ample warning. 

Selfish as it was, some part of Malcolm was happy he wasn’t the only one who lost a father that day. Joy in suffering, togetherness in the wake of loss- those were puzzles his rational, educated mind didn’t bother to try and unravel. He simply returned the embrace. 

Dearest Ainsely. One day she would be gone, too. He held on like he couldn’t unlearn it. 

“It’s lovely outside,” she offered. “You could take a walk with me in the arboretum. Step out of this stuffy, old office for a while. I doubt anyone would take anything.” She paused, thoughtful. Rubbed a few lazy circles into his shoulder. “Father would want you to have some respite every now and again.” 

Malcolm let out a grateful huff. “Thank you.” Reluctantly, he pulled away and smeared the tears away. “I’ll consider it. Tasks help me. But I know how much a break would mean to you.”

“You also know what eating a proper meal would mean to mother and yet you haven’t gotten around to that.”

“I did. Yesterday evening.”

“A bread roll and broth won’t satisfy her, remember?”

“Fair’s fair. She’s not the one eating it. I am.”

Ainsley chuckled at that. She smiled. Making sure they could still smile was a noble and worthwhile pursuit, the older brother decided. If only he had come to the conclusion sooner. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and made her way to the doorway. “When should I expect you?”

He took a stray journal from the desk and held it in his hands. The leather was old and faded. Clutter still sat in stacks and shelves around the small office. “I can’t say. I think I need more time.”

“Of course.” She offered a sad smile. “Come find me when you’re ready.” And with that she disappeared, echoing footsteps following her all the way down the hall. He watched her go, went so far as to step out into the hallway and lean against the doorframe until she was well out of sight. 

A calm quiet settled around the office, a quiet where dread and anxiety could sprout and bloom. Malcolm looked to his left. Then his right. And then over his shoulder, where he knew he was alone but felt the compulsion to check anyways. Yes. Alone. He was certain of it. As far as he was concerned, no one knew the true nature of his intentions, at least not yet. He closed and locked the door and dug under the bench where he hid his satchel. 

Grief was still a part of it, of course, though it was a part that would soon be overshadowed by Malcolm’s own morbid curiosity and profound confusion. Every time he came away from his father’s private journals the ordeal made less and less sense. Firstly, Professor Martin Whitly had been done in by a sudden cardiac event, one no doctor had foreseen or detected in any recent appointment. Second, what was equally puzzling was his increasingly manic behavior, specifically in the two weeks prior to his death. He was working odd hours, talking to himself. Even raised a hand to his wife and the mother of his children when she dared to peek over his shoulder and catch a glimpse of his notes. 

Thankfully, nothing came of it. Father apologized later and kept his promise to never do such a thing again. But if Malcolm hadn’t walked in on them, who knows what would have happened. 

He shoved that thought out of the way and opened his father’s journal. The mad scrawlings made no sense. Ink had bled on the pages in thick, frantic lines. Sentences veered off and paragraphs sat lopsided on the parchment. Entries that were written within the week of the professor’s death were just barely legible. There were drawings as well, all of what looked to be an ordinary shell. Or what would have been an ordinary shell if it were drawn without the apparent obsession of its artist. 

Malcolm settled for reading through some of the earlier entries. And only until the sky had started to change color outside did he find the true beginning of it all. 

_ April 15, 1923 _

_ The most ridiculous trifle took place today.  _

_ It all started during my office’s open hours. A gentleman of African descent with the surname Grant and no business being on the campus grounds paid me a visit. He insisted upon delivering a package that I never ordered and that was not addressed to me. As a matter of fact, it appeared to be addressed to no one. I asked him politely that he take it away and leave the premises, though he did not care to accommodate my (very) reasonable request. In the end, Mr. Grant had to be forcibly removed from my office and, with no label or definite shape by which to identify its contents, I had no choice but to open the package. While a fossil would not go unappreciated to a marine biologist, it was the man’s behavior that I did not take kindly to.  _

_ I have already alerted the local authorities and I make record herewith of this happening. Proof, should I need a stake for my claims in a court of law. I suspect that he may return to threaten me. And I do not respond well to threats.  _

_ I resolve not to take this anger with me. I love my wife and children enough to not force this unpleasantness upon them.  _

Malcolm hummed thoughtfully. A strange occurrence, yes, all the way back in April. Perhaps this was where the trouble began. Perhaps it had months to build and fester before coming to a head in the past two weeks. The young man turned the page. 

_ April 18, 1923 _

_ Sleep does not come to me easily lately. And my nerves are terribly unsettled, even whilst deeply immersed in my work. Strange dreams and visions visit me. They cavort on the edges of my vision and my consciousness and vanish once I stir or try to steal a glance. I feel as though they take something away every time, but I can never remember what. All that’s left is a sense of emptiness, like I’m staring down into an empty pit. Or like I’m sinking.  _

_ My wife worries, of course. Bless her. I know she means well, but it does no good to disclose the nature of these happenings when I myself do not understand them.  _

_ Perhaps it is nothing. An odd mood and just that. I simply need sleep.  _

Malcolm rubbed one of his eyes and flipped further into the journal. 

_ May 1, 1923 _

_ They’re watching. And they’re waiting.  _

The young man looked over his shoulder yet again and found no one. Still, he found the feeling strangely mutual. Somehow.

_ Every time I try to rid myself of the wretched fossil, I find it that it makes its way back into my possession one way or another. A few days ago I gave it a toss into the harbor and found it sitting on my desk the next morning, in spite of the locked door. _

_ The authorities are stupid and worthless. I’ve come to them with report after report of stalking and they are content to write me off as a bigot. Nevermind that I am being terrorized at my work and now my own home. They wait for me. I swear it. They’re in the bushes and in the windows, yet I never seem to catch them, let alone get to speak reasonably with them.  _

_ I have reason to believe they know of my son and daughter. Ainsley spoke of a run-in at the market today. She may be content to write it off as a misunderstanding or a mere brush against the shoulder for the sake of haste. I am not. Christ, I’m not even sure I could warn my own children of this. They would think of me the same way the authorities would think of me. Or perhaps they will resolve to place me in an asylum.  _

_ My father’s rifle remains mounted on the wall. I’ll be making a stop for munitions today, if I can manage it. I’d pawn the fossil off if I could, but I suspect that maybe even the shopkeep will be on their side, supporting their strange cause.  _

Malcolm looked up and eyed the shells littering the office. Each and every one. He was struck with the strange feeling that they would start to move on their own and revolt. But that was silly. Nonetheless, he took up a new search, going so far as to start digging around in the drawers of his father’s desk. 

He found the fossil, at long last. Not a slab or an imprint in a mud. It was a whole nautilus shell, glossy and dark, sporting a sheen as rich as a bed of moss, small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. And oddly enough, rancid with a foul, musty odor. While it felt dry to the touch, he likened the stench to mold. Malcolm set the petrified shell down on the sill of the open window and proceeded to read his father’s journal.

_ May 2, 1923 _

_ You’re reading this, aren’t you? _

_ Please, just leave me alone. I don’t know what you want from me.  _

And that was it. Malcolm frowned. He was about to go to the next entry when he caught sight of a piece of completely black parchment poking out from under a loose page. Curiosity convinced him to skip ahead. 

The final entry, undated, carried on for several pages. 

_ DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY DON’T TOUCH MY FAMILY I DON’T CARE IF IT KILLS ME I DON’T CARE IF YOU THINK I OWE YOU SOMETHING I DON’T CARE IF IT’S THEM OR THE REST OF HUMANITY I DON’T CARE IF THE WATERS OF CREATION RISE UP TO SWALLOW THE EARTH WHOLE THEY DESERVE TO LIVE THE REST OF THEIR LIVES WITHOUT KNOWING THE TRUTH AND IF YOU SO MUCH AS TRY TO SPEAK TO THEM I’LL KILL YOU MYSELF AND I WILL ENJOY EACH AND EVERY SECOND OF YOUR SUFFERING _

The last stroke of the letter “G” stretched all the way down to the lowest corner of the page. Malcolm found himself struck with a sudden image of his father collapsing as he wrote this last entry, falling victim to his cardiac event. He sat there, closing and opening the diary over and over again. Sure enough, those final scrawlings remained. It wasn’t a trick of the light. And last he checked, Malcolm himself was of sound enough mind to see it for himself. A cold dread slithered up behind him and clutched him like a vice. He shouldn’t be getting into this. The whole ordeal was nothing but bad news since the very beginning. 

He could avoid this all. Call it all a bad dream or chalk it all up to a strange neurosis. But there had to be a reason. There had to be a connection. And he had a sneaking suspicion that the fossil had something to do with it. 

He stuffed the journal in his satchel and swiped up the petrified shell from the window sill. Malcolm himself didn’t recognize it, but he knew someone who might. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, thanks for reading! Don't forget to leave a comment. Criticism is always welcome!


End file.
